


Strangeness & Charm

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Baz pov, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2019, Competition, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of the Mage, Penny has had enough, Pining, Plotting, Prompt for Pattern, Simon POV, Simon and Baz are both at uni, Taken from the headlines, They favor the same coffee shop, coffee shop AU, penelope pov, so has Agatha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Written for the Carry On Countdown 2019 prompt Pattern. Simon and Baz favor the same coffee shop and engage in a competition over who is the most loyal customer. The competition grows heated but so do their emotions. A non-magical coffee shop AU of boys plotting, pining and falling in love.art by the wonderful @sanexiah on Instagram
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559566
Comments: 30
Kudos: 206





	Strangeness & Charm

**Author's Note:**

> work title from the son Strangeness & Charm by Florence and the Machine. 
> 
> ”oh atom to atom oh can you feel it on me love. A pattern to pattern oh can you see it on me love”)

**Strangeness and Charm**

**Simon**

“Come on, Penny. It’s just a ten percent discount.”

“I told you, Simon, we don’t do discounts.”

“But I’m your best customer!”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Coming in here every day for the free wi-fi doesn’t make you our best customer.”

“I get a coffee every day.”

She huffs. “So do dozens of other people! That doesn’t make you special.”

“That hurts, Penny.” I frown at her. “That really hurts.”

I try with Agatha the next day. “It’s for customer appreciation, Ags.” 

“We don’t do discounts, Simon.”

“Well, a loyalty card then. You know I never get my coffee at any other coffee shop.”

“You don’t go to any other coffee shop.”

“See? That’s loyalty, right there.” I lean across the counter. “I could be the first.”

She sighs. “First what?”

“The first customer in the loyalty programme.”

“We don’t have a loyalty programme, Simon. We’ve been through this.”

“Simon, stop pestering Agatha.” Penny materializes across the counter, glaring at me over her glasses. “Order your boring flat white and shove off.”

“So much for customer service,” I complain. They both ignore me.

I’m still stewing over it an hour later. I come to Watford every day, before and after class. I order coffee and a scone to go in the mornings.

I do my coursework here after class. I can’t afford wi-fi at my flat so I come to the cafe and I sit in the front booth and work on my laptop. 

I chat with the staff. I know all the other regulars. I’m basically part of the ambience. 

I mention it to Ebb.  
  
“Ah, Simon, love. I don’t make the rules.” 

“But you’re the manager.”

“I’m the manager but I’m not the owner. Mr. Mage doesn’t believe in loyalty programmes. Says loyalty can’t be bought.”

“That’s rot.” 

“It’s company policy."

It’s rubbish is what it is.

I’m still thinking about it a week later as I’m waiting for my coffee. I’m standing by the bulletin board at the back of the cafe, looking at the flyers people have posted on it. There aren’t that many--a few people selling furniture, a flyer from someone who’s looking for a flatmate, an advert for the upcoming production of _Rent_ at the local theatre. 

And that’s when it comes to me. Watford may not have a punch card or a loyalty programme. 

But it can certainly have a customer of the week. 

And that customer is me.

I go home to muck about on my laptop. I find a decent selfie and create a flyer with my face in the middle of it and “CUSTOMER OF THE WEEK” at the top. I put a little quote from me talking about Watford beneath my photo and finish it off with _“presented for outstanding coffee purchasing at this store”_ at the bottom. 

I tuck it into my backpack. 

When I go to Watford the next morning I tack it up in the center of the bulletin board. Looks damn good, if I say so myself. 

I’m back later that afternoon. I get my coffee and settle down in my spot, laptop open. I have a paper due tomorrow so I end up being there for a few hours. 

I could use another coffee. 

I’m waiting for my order when I see it. 

There, in the middle of the wall, is a framed photograph of some bloke. 

It’s a black and white photo. Artistically lit. The bloke has shoulder-length, dark, wavy hair and a widow’s peak. Cheekbones that could cut you, they’re so sharp. He’s handsome, if you’re into those brooding, smouldering types. 

Odd place for a framed photo. 

And that’s when I notice the rest. It’s not just a framed photograph. Below the photo this tosser has had the bloody cheek to write “CUSTOMER OF THE WEEK (EVERY WEEK)” in bold font.

What a fucking wanker. 

I scan the bulletin board for my flyer. It’s not there anymore. 

I’m furious. What the actual fuck? Who does this guy think he is? 

He really thinks he’s customer of the week?

I’ve never seen him here. I’d remember if I had. I’d remember that smug, insufferable smirk, those calculating eyes. 

I go up to the counter. “Penny.”

“Your coffee will be up in a minute, Simon.”

“I don’t want to talk to you about my coffee.” 

“Good, then shove off. You’re blocking the counter.”  
  
“There’s no one else waiting. Penny, listen, who is that?”

She closes her eyes briefly. “Who are you talking about?”

I point dramatically to the framed photo on the wall. “Him!”

Penny squints at the photo. “That’s Baz.” 

“Who the fuck is Baz?”

“Simon, hush.”  
  
“Who is he, Penny?”

“Baz Pitch. He’s one of the regulars.”

I stand up straighter. “Oh, is he?” My tone is icy.

“What are you on about, Simon? I’ve got work to do.”

“I put up a flyer this morning and now it’s gone and this arrogant bastard has plastered his snide face on the wall and taken my title!”

Penny frowns. “What are you on about?” she repeats. 

“I’m obviously the customer of the week!” 

She presses her fingers against her temples and sighs. “Let me take a look.”

Penny comes around the counter and marches up to the photo of this Baz. She looks it over and snorts a laugh. 

That won’t do at all. There’s nothing funny about this. I pull her over to the bulletin board and point to the empty spot where my flyer was. “This is complete and utter shit, Penny.” I whip out my mobile and show her the photo I had proudly taken of my flyer that morning. 

She actually laughs this time. 

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh, come on, Simon. Baz probably saw your flyer and he’s taking the piss. It is kind of funny, you have to admit.” 

“I’ll admit no such thing.” I narrow my eyes at her. “He’s made an enemy, I can tell you that.”

“Settle down, Si. Go sit at your table. I’ll bring your coffee to you when it’s ready, okay?”

“I’ll not be that easily settled, Penny. The wanker stole my title.”

I fuss and fume but I don’t have time for it, not with this bloody paper I have to finish editing. I can’t focus here, not with that sodding photo staring at me from across the cafe. I pack up my laptop in disgust and head home. I don’t need wi-fi to finish my damn paper. 

I’m running late the next morning so I don’t make it to Watford until the afternoon, but it’s given me time to plan my next step. This Baz may think he’s one-upped me but two can play at that game. 

I go to the uni bookstore at lunchtime and find a large frame with a mat. I make an enlargement of my original _‘customer of the week’_ flyer and frame the damn thing, now poster size. 

I march into Watford and head directly for the back of the cafe. I pull the fraud’s photo off the wall and hang my own much larger and more ornately framed certificate. It looks good. 

I don’t know why I don’t throw his in the trash. 

I put it in my backpack instead. 

I head to the counter to order my coffee. Agatha is staring at the frame I just hung on the wall. “What do you think you’re doing, Simon?”

“Proving my fucking loyalty, Agatha. What does it look like I’m doing?”

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t respond. I don’t think Agatha is invested enough in this job, I really don’t. 

I get my coffee and sit in my booth, taking a good look around the cafe when I do. There aren’t too many patrons here right now, but I’m looking for one particular person. I want to see his face when he realises what I’ve done. 

Doesn’t seem to be here though, the tosser. 

That’s fine. I know I’ve won. 

I’ve only got afternoon classes on Wednesdays so I don’t make it to Watford until midday. I order my food and coffee and settle in. 

I’m taking the first bite of my sandwich when I see it.

Fucking hell.

Across the cafe from me, projected on the blank back wall, is Baz’s face. It’s massive, taking up almost the whole surface, and right next to his smirking self--in huge font--is his fucking _“customer of the week (every week)”_ title. 

I’m livid. I’m out of my seat, my half-eaten sandwich dropping heavily onto my plate. I typically don’t walk away from food but I’m steaming. Literally. 

My face is all hot and I can feel a trickle of sweat bead down my back. That fucking arsehole.

I’m at the counter an instant later. Agatha takes in the sight of me and her shoulders slump. “Yes, Simon?”

“What . . . how . . . who the hell . . . how can you allow that?”

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and then exhales it in a rush before she speaks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That!” I point at the giant Baz sneering at me from the back wall. “Him. How the hell are you letting him do that?”

She shrugs. I hate it when people do that. “He just wheeled it in and set it up. Customers were freaking out a bit at first. They thought it was some reality television thing. But once they saw it was just a photo on the wall they ignored it.” She gives me a flinty look. “Which is what I suggest you do.”

“I will do no such thing. This is an attack. This is not some bloke taking the piss. This involved planning. _Plotting._ ” I lean across the counter. “Is Ebb here? I want to speak to her. She’s the manager. She needs to put a stop to this.”

Agatha rolls her eyes at me. I’m pretty damn tired of people doing that too. 

“You’re the one who started it, Simon.” 

“I did not. I just put up a little sign, just a bit of humor, a small way to highlight my loyalty to Watford, since none of you bother to take note of it. He’s the one who escalated it.” I point at the projector image again. 

“Are you ordering anything? Because there’s a queue behind you and it’s almost time for the lunchtime rush.” 

I storm back to my table. 

The bastard’s ruined my meal. The sandwich is tasteless to me now. 

I’m incensed. I honestly don’t know what I would do if this Baz character walked into the cafe right now. I’d be well tempted to punch him right in his too-high nose. 

I half-heartedly finish my meal. I don’t even have the appetite for a scone today.  
  
There’s one thing I do before I leave. I find the projector, tucked into a corner of the cafe, near one of the bins. And I turn the bloody thing off. 

I’m wracking my brain for a good response. I think about it on the walk home. I stew about it over dinner. I’m still trying to come up with something when I go to empty my backpack. I need to charge my laptop. 

Oh. 

I pull out Baz’s framed photo from the cafe. I forgot I had stashed it in my pack after I took it down the other day. I should throw it in the trash. I’m so furious about today’s events that I briefly consider smashing his smirking face with my fist. I don’t. I’d only cut my knuckles on the glass.

I’ll throw it away.

I’m halfway to the kitchen when I get a better idea. Baz has basically declared war with his projector stunt. 

This calls for more drastic measures on my part. I need inspiration, an over the top comeback of my own. 

I put the photo on top of my bookshelf, so my nemesis is staring down at me from across the room. That should get me good and worked up.

It’s late by the time I get to bed and I’ve come up blank so far.

I get a terrible night’s sleep. I’m grumpy and tired and I’ve got half a mind to go to the Costa on my way to class out of sheer spite. 

But I’m not that petty. 

I’ll just go without coffee. I’m not going back into Watford to see his stupid face again this morning. 

I go back in and see his stupid face because I can’t function without my morning coffee and I’m too nice to go to a competitor. This, _this here_ , is exactly why I should be the customer of the fucking year, not just the week. 

And that’s when I get the idea, as I’m standing in line waiting for my coffee, trying to avoid looking at Baz’s looming visage. 

I grab my coffee and bolt out of the cafe. I’ll probably need to get Ebb’s buy-in on this but if she let the bloody wanker project his face on the wall I’m sure she’ll let me do this.

The copy shop is empty and the sole employee is surprisingly accommodating. He promises me that everything will be printed and ready by evening. 

He’s true to his word.  
  
I gather it all up, settle my bill and rush to the cafe. 

“Where’s Ebb?” I say to Penny, breathless from my jog across campus. 

“Well, hello to you too, Simon.”

“Penny, I need to speak to Ebb. Is she still here?”

Penny eyes the bundle in my arms suspiciously. “Simon, please tell me you’re not doing what you’re doing. That you’ve not got some hare-brained idea to try and escalate this thing with Baz.”

“I’m not escalating anything. He started it.”

“ _You started it_ , you great thumping git, with your ridiculous flyer.”

“It was accurate. There was no need for him to steal my title.”

“Are you listening to yourself? You’ve gone mental over a made-up coffee shop loyalty programme.” 

“Where’s Ebb, Penny?”

Penny throws her hands in the air in disgust and points to a door behind the counter. “Back there.”

I rap on the door and Ebb opens it. She grins when she sees me. “Simon! Haven’t seen you in a few days. You doing alright, love?”

“Could I speak with you, Ebb?” I can feel Penny’s laser-like stare on me. She’s just a few feet away, arms crossed, glaring at me over the top of her glasses. I’m half a head taller than her but when she looks at me like this I feel about three feet tall. 

Penny’s my best friend. I’d expect her to be at least a bit sympathetic. 

Apparently not.

I scowl at her before turning back to Ebb.  
  
Ebb’s motioning me into the storeroom. “Come along then, Simon. Tell me what’s on your mind, dear.”

I follow her in, the door shutting on Penny’s disapproving face.  
  
Good. 

“Ebb, you know how much I love Watford.”

She nods but looks a bit puzzled. 

“I know I’ve talked to you about the loyalty programme before.” I keep talking before she gets that patient look of hers. The one that usually shuts down this sort of conversation with a kind pat on the back and references to Mr. Mage’s rules. “But I know you let Baz put up a photo and do that projector thing and I’m the one who started the customer appreciation post on the bulletin board and it’s not fair that’s he’s taken it over . . .” I’m babbling. I’ve got a bad habit of blustering when I’m emotional about something. I end up stumbling over my words and not making sense.

Ebb puts her hand on my shoulder and I sag. It’s going to be one of those dismissive pats, I just know it. 

“Ah, Simon, I think it’s lovely.” 

That’s not what I was expecting. “You think what’s lovely?”

“The way you and Baz are playing this game, back and forth.”

I’m not playing any game with Baz. I’m defending my territory. Fighting for my title, even if it’s self-proclaimed. Doing what’s right. 

“Playing?”

“Yes, it’s such a creative way to help us get some attention.”

“Attention?”

Ebb laughs. “Yes, the campus newspaper sent a reporter to take some photos and write something up about your little competition. Seems customers noticed and thought it was some kind of marketing stunt.” She grips my shoulder. “So I should be thanking you both for the free publicity.”

Bloody hell. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they want to interview you and Baz next.” Her grin is so wide it makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. Ebb smiles with her whole face. She shakes my shoulder. “You’ll have to say nice things about us if they do, Simon.”

“I always say nice things about Watford, Ebb.” Now’s my chance to ask her. She can’t say no now, not with what she’s told me.

“So I wanted to ask you if it’s alright if I take it to the next level?”

I pull a shirt out of the bag and hold it against my chest.  
  
Ebb starts laughing, bending forward to put her hands on her knees. When she stands back up she’s still laughing so hard that tears are squeezing out of the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Simon. I can’t imagine what Baz will say when he sees that!” 

“So it’s alright then?”

“It’s perfect. I’m sure the newspaper will be ‘round again once word gets out on this.”

I hand Ebb the bag with the shirts and a small box full of the loyalty cards I’ve had printed up. 

It’s probably better if she tells the staff about this. I think Penny might downright refuse if it comes from me. 

I scuttle out of the shop, avoiding Penny as I do. 

It’s an absolute triumph the next morning. All the staff at Watford are wearing the commemorative t shirts I’ve had made. 

They’re emblazoned with my face, full color. I’ve dispensed with the _“customer of the week”_ twaddle. This is all about victory now. 

Above my face script spells out “ _Watford welcomes”_ and then under my picture, in giant font, I’ve added _“Our best customer Simon Snow!”_

Take that, Baz.

Agatha looks particularly miffed as she takes my order. “I can’t believe you convinced Ebb to do this, Simon,” she hisses at me as she hands my change back. 

“What’s it to you? You’ve got to wear a uniform anyway, what’s it matter who’s on it?”

She clenches her jaw. “It matters when I have to wear _your face_ all day. It’s one thing to wear a purple t-shirt with _Watford_ on it. It’s another to have your face on my chest and have people staring at it to try to puzzle out what it means.” She huffs. “Really, Simon, you’re so full of yourself.” 

“I am no such thing.” 

She waves my customer loyalty cards at me. 

I thought those were a nice touch. They had eight punch points and a tiny photo of my face. I’d put “ _Like our coffee? Buy 8 and give the 8th to Simon!”_ Since Mage won’t allow them to give away free coffees I thought was nice to offer a cheerful alternative. I’d put _“The Simon Snow Coffee Club”_ at the bottom. I think they look very professional. Nice paper stock and all. 

“Those were just for fun.”

Agatha points to her shirt. “We’re all walking around with your face on our shirts, Simon. Handing out these stupid cards. We didn’t choose you as our best customer. You chose yourself. Now shove off, Chosen One, there are other people in line.”

She’s right. It’s the middle of the morning rush. The cafe is packed. I get stopped more than once on my way out by customers pointing at me and saying some variation of “It’s you, mate, you’re the one on their shirts.” 

Or “Nice selfie, there. How do I get my face on one of those?”

And the one arsehole who feels the need to say “How do I get my face on _her_ chest, my man?”  
  
I may shove my way past him a bit thuggishly. 

The comments don’t stop when I leave the cafe. They go on all day, all across campus. 

“It’s the Watford dude!”

“Do you get a discount with that, mate?”

“I’d wear your face anytime.” I walk faster after that one. 

I pick up a campus newspaper and the Watford story is on the second page. _“Coffee shop feud heats up.”_

They don’t even have the shirt update yet.

I check the Watford instagram page a bit later in the day and there’s a photo of Agatha in the shirt. 

She’s not smiling. 

The hashtag is **#SimonsaysdrinkWatfordcoffee** and that makes me smile. 

Take that, Baz. Who’s Watford’s most loyal customer now?

I’m at the cafe in the afternoon. Ebb tells me I missed the local newspaper crew. Seems they’re covering the story now as well. I get slaps on the back from some of the other regulars. A few arseholes ask me to buy them a coffee. I shrug it all off. 

The best part is that there’s been no response from Baz. No sign of him. I’ve won. There’s no way he can top this. 

I’m feeling good enough that I splurge on a mocha latte today. Penny takes my order. She looks no happier than Agatha did this morning. 

“Well, is this enough customer appreciation for you now, Simon? Can you put it to rest finally?” 

I’m well satisfied with this. I’d never have gone to such extremes if it wasn’t for Baz and his doomed challenge. I might not get a discount and I’ve spent a bit more than I intended with it all, but it’s alright. It’s been more fun than I anticipated, honestly. 

It’s in the town paper the next day and I’m well chuffed until I get a good look at the article. They’ve got Baz’s bloody photo front and center. The brooding black and white one projected on the wall. That’s the only photo they’ve got, the one of his bloody face. 

It’s the photo I’ve got sitting at home on my bookcase still. I really need to toss it when I get home tonight. 

I don’t toss it when I get home.

I try not to think about it.

  
  


**Penny**

Baz bursts out laughing as soon as he sees my shirt. “When I said you should meet my friend Simon this was not what I envisioned, Baz.”

“Come on, Bunce. How could I resist once he’d plastered his earnest, grinning mug on the board?”

“I said you two had a love of Watford coffee in common, not that you should engage in an all out war over who is the most dedicated customer!”

“Well, there was never any question. It was always going to be me. I’m the one who literally lives above the cafe, Bunce, so when I say I live and breathe Watford coffee I’m not lying.”

“You’re too literal, Baz.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“You deserve each other, really.” 

**Baz**

Don’t I wish. 

Bunce has been going on about her friend Simon for months now, telling me how lovely he is, how she thinks we’d get along. 

I know who he is. I’ve seen him on campus. We’ve had a few classes together--auditorium classes--but we’ve never actually met. 

I’ve seen him here too, at Watford. You would think we’d have run into each other by now, considering how often we both frequent the cafe, but we haven’t.

That’s my doing. 

Snow usually sits in the front and I choose to sit in the back. He doesn’t see me from there but I can see him. 

He’s beautiful. Blue eyes. Bronze curls. Tawny, sun-kissed skin, dotted with moles and freckles. He’s almost always smiling. 

I know Bunce thinks it’s odd that I haven’t taken her up on an introduction to Snow, but I can’t work up the courage. 

I’m no good at meeting new people. The only reason Bunce and I get along is that we’re both overly studious misanthropes and not too concerned with making friends. I’ve got enough people in my life, I’ve not got the time or energy to invest in new people. 

At least that’s what I tell myself. I’d make the time and energy for Snow. 

But I don’t. 

I don’t because I’m a complete pillock and I usually say something horribly cutting and snide when I first meet people because I’m nervous. 

Snow makes me nervous. I’d be sure to bollocks it up. 

I’m not sure I haven’t bollocksed it up with this little feud we’ve got going. I was just taking the piss, that first day, with the photo. I never intended to keep it up.

I thought he’d get a good laugh out of it. Or finally notice me sitting in the back and come over to give me a piece of his mind and then I wouldn’t be the one starting off awkward. 

But he didn’t. He got flustered and flushed, and even though it was a shit way to get his attention, _I’d gotten his attention_. 

So I kept going. 

I’ve loved his responses. How he’s been so bent on besting me. 

But I think what I liked the most was the way he kept looking at the projected photo of me. How his eyes would go back to that wall, over and over. 

But I’m a coward. I went out the back door before he got close enough to see me. 

I know the secrets to Watford. I’ve lived upstairs for two years now. My family owns this building. We’ve had it for decades.

My mother lived upstairs when she went to uni. 

Then she and my father lived above the cafe when they first got married. Snow may think he’s Watford’s most loyal customer but I’ve been part of Watford my whole life. 

I could let Snow have this. Let him win. He’s made it entertaining. The t shirts were a masterful idea.  
  
I think my favorite bit is how disgruntled the staff are at having to wear them. Especially Wellbelove. 

I’m not one to give up easily. Snow may think he’s got this locked up. 

But I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve. It’s a gamble. It could piss him off so much he doesn’t want anything to do with me. Or it could intrigue him enough to seek me out.

Maybe that would give me the courage to finally go through with meeting him. 

I don’t know which it will be. But I’m willing to risk it. I’m like a moth to a flame with Snow. I’ve been circling this particular fire for so bloody long. 

I’m ready to risk getting burned. 

**Penny**

Baz smirks at me as he takes his coffee and I know this isn’t over. He’s not going to let Simon win this easily. 

They’re made for each other. 

**Simon**

It’s been over two days and there’s been no response from Baz. My loyalty cards have all disappeared and the staff is back to wearing their purple Watford t shirts again, the ones with the little crest design on the front right. 

Seems Mr. Mage came in, saw my shirts, and had a bit of a fit about it. 

I can understand that, I suppose. But I did get the shop free publicity. That should count for something?  
  
Anyway, I made myself scarce at Watford for a day or two. 

I’m back now, at my front booth, laptop in front of me. I’m almost done with this assignment. I should pack it up and head home soon. 

I linger. 

I know it’s pointless, since I’ve never seen him here before, but I keep wondering if I’ll run into Baz one of these times. 

I know what he looks like, from the photo. 

I look for him. I scan the cafe, search for him on campus now.  
  
Not sure what I’d say if I did run into him. Something stupid, I’m certain of that.

I don’t want to punch him anymore.

I think I’ve won but it’s not quite as satisfying as I was expecting. 

I’m not sure I want this to be over. 

I want to know what he was thinking, when he decided to put up the photo. What made him do it. 

What made him keep at it. I’m curious, more than anything, I think. 

About him. 

About why my flyer caught his attention. If he was just taking the piss. 

His photo is still on my shelf. I’m trying not to think about why that is. 

Fuck. I know why that is. 

Because he’s a fit twat, that’s why. Because I can’t stop looking at the photo. 

Because I want to get to know the person behind that smirk. 

I pack up my laptop and papers. My coffee is cold. I check the time. I probably shouldn’t have another. 

I still don’t leave.

I decide to check my messages. 

There’s one from Gareth. _“There’s no way you can top this, mate.”_

I wonder what he means by that? I look around the cafe. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, no banners, no new photos. 

_“Top what?”_ I message Gareth back. 

_“You’ve not seen it then?”_

_“Seen what?_

_"The Watford insta?”_

I haven’t checked it but I do now. 

I tap away at my phone and pull up Instagram. I’m not sure what I’m seeing at first. 

It’s the Watford crest, in purple ink that matches the store logo. 

There’s an expanse of skin around it and the glimpse of an arm. 

It’s a fucking tattoo. 

It’s a nice arm. It’s a particularly nice chest. Flank? Side? 

I don’t know what exactly to call this part of a person’s anatomy, but all I can say is whoever it is, they’re fit as hell. I can see the play of muscles under the skin. The definition of their tricep. 

And the fucking Watford logo, with a bit of redness surrounding it. 

Which means it’s a fresh tattoo. 

And now I know exactly whose arm that is, whose fucking fit body that is. 

It has to be Baz. 

Fucking hell.

I feel a wave of heat in my chest and I don’t quite know if I’m furious or turned on. Or both. 

Fuck. 

He’s won. I can’t top this.

I should be more upset about it, I suppose, but I can’t seem to muster up the outrage. I’m far too focused on this image. 

I take a closer look at the photo, try to enlarge it, but it’s bloody Instagram so I can’t keep it enlarged. 

I take a fucking screeshot because I’m beyond all reason now. 

It can’t be real. He wouldn’t get a tattoo of the logo just to win.

Would he?

It looks real. 

But maybe it’s just a marker. Felt tip.  
  
Maybe he had a friend draw it, to make me think it’s real. So I’d give up. 

I check insta again and see a tag on the post. _@blackaspitch._ That’s got to be Baz? Who else would they tag? 

I click on the handle and I know it’s him as soon as I see his profile page. Same long black hair. Same arresting grey eyes.  
  
It’s him. 

It’s Baz. 

I hit _‘follow’_ before I quite process what I’m doing. 

And then I’m typing out a message. 

I don’t know what I’m thinking. 

**Baz**

My side fucking _hurts._

I’d gone to Watford after I’d had it done, to show Ebb the tattoo. Her eyes had widened and she’d put her hand on my shoulder gently. “Baz, love, that must have been so painful.”

“It’s fine.” 

“You didn’t have to keep going, you numpty.”

“I know.” I know I didn’t. But I wanted to. I wanted to do something. 

Something totally out of character, something brave and stupid. Reckless. 

And pointless. 

Something that would make trying to talk to Snow seem easy by comparison. 

I think I could get a dozen tattoos and it would still be easier than facing up to the fact that I’m pining over a boy I’ve never even met. A boy who probably hates me.  
  
Because I’m the kind of prick who would go get a tattoo to win some unspoken competition. 

I’m such an idiot. 

Ebb takes a photo of my tattoo. The local news has taken this story up and it’s doing wonders for publicity for the cafe. This will only fuel that, especially if it’s on the Watford social media pages. 

“You’re alright with me posting this, Baz?”

I nod. “Just tag me in it, Ebb.” I give her a smirk, even though my heart’s racing wildly now and I’m truly starting to regret how impetuous I was a few hours ago. 

But that’s what I do. I smirk and put on a mask of indifference because it’s safer that way. People won’t know how I really feel if I hide it. 

I don’t know how I feel right now. 

Agitated. Exhilarated.

Really fucking sore. 

“Simon will be fit to burst,” Ebb says. “I don’t know what he’ll think to try next.” She shakes her head as she laughs. 

Next? She really thinks Snow will try to top this?

I’m doomed. Tapped out. I’ve got nothing else.

I keep my head up as I walk out of the cafe and take the stairs to my flat. I really don’t know what lunacy possessed me. I can’t even use the excuse that it was a spur of the moment decision. I thought of it when I saw those ridiculous t shirts of Snow’s.  
  
Actually, my first thought was to wonder what Snow’s face would look like as a tattoo. I’m disturbed, ask anyone. 

But that deviant thought gave me the idea to do the logo. It took a few hours to get a good, clean version of it. And then a day to find a reputable tattoo place to do it. 

I take paracetamol to help with the sting from the tattoo and gingerly sit on the sofa. I don’t know what possessed me to get it along my rib cage. Probably the thought that no one could see it there and I wouldn’t have to make any awkward excuses to my father or my aunt Fiona about it that way.

No one can see it where it is, unless I specifically let them. Which--other than Ebb, for proof--I’m not about to do. 

I try to read but the throbbing on my side keeps me from focusing. 

I get a notification that Ebb’s posted the photo on the Watford instagram page. 

It’s getting a healthy amount of likes. 

A message comes in as I’m scrolling down. From _@simonsnowscone._

It has to be him. Who else would have such a ridiculous instagram username? It’s precious and adorable and I’m terrified to read the message. 

I click on it.

_“Well played, you wanker. Made me think you actually got a tattoo for a minute. I’ll not believe it until I see it for myself. If it’s real, then I’ll admit you’ve won, with full honors. Meet me at Watford at 4.”_

The insufferable muppet. Did he really think I’d fake something like this? I’m a Pitch. We don’t do half measures. 

I check the time. It’s almost four now. 

I’m off the sofa in an instant, wincing at the pull of skin at the tattoo site. 

The cafe is just downstairs but I’ve no intention of being late. 

I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll be damned if I’m going to take my shirt off in the middle of a public space just so SImon Snow can assure himself that my tattoo is real.

The thought of Simon Snow ogling my tattoo is disturbingly alluring however. _Get a grip, Pitch._

I trot down the stairs but slow my pace before heading into the cafe. I smooth my hair, adjust my sleeves and then go in the back entrance, so I can see Snow before he can spot me. 

I scan the cafe. There are a few people seated at tables and queued up at the counter. No sign of Snow. His usual booth at the front is empty. 

I briefly consider taking a seat there, to wait for him. But that would reveal far too much. I can’t have Snow realize I’m so familiar with his patterns. 

I decide to take my usual seat instead, at the back. It’s easy to see the front door and Snow’s booth from there, but it’s fairly well camouflaged. Few people choose to sit back there so it should be free at this time of day. 

It’s not. My usual seat is occupied. 

By Snow. 

He stands when he sees me, almost upsetting his chair. I’m taller than he is. He has to tilt his head up a bit to meet my eyes. I can tell he doesn’t like that by the way he juts his chin out. 

“Baz.” It’s not a question. 

“Snow.”

We’re both still standing. This is going to be as bloody awkward as I anticipated. I wave my hand in Snow’s direction and take a seat. I can’t help but wince as the skin stretches over my tattoo. 

Snow sits across from me, his eyes fixed on my face. 

“So.” I’m a complete disaster. I can’t think of what to say. 

“So.” Snow crosses his arms and leans his elbows on the table. 

“You’re the one who asked to meet.” My tone is far more irritable than I intend. I knew I would fuck this up. 

I should never have agreed to come here. He’s across the table from me and all I want to do is drink in the sight of him. Instead I’m practically snarling at him. 

He tilts his head to the side. “I did.” His eyes haven’t left mine. “I wanted to know if you’d really done it or were taking the piss with that instagram post.”

“I don’t lie, if that’s what you’re intimating.”

Christ, I’ve wanted this for so long but I can’t seem to keep myself from being an absolute tit about it. 

It’s who I am. 

This is pointless. All I’ve managed with my little stunt this week is to well and truly piss Snow off. I’ve finally got his attention but it’s negative attention, as if I’m a toddler throwing a tantrum

This has been one of my worst ideas. This entire endeavour. 

“Prove it then.” Snow’s words interrupt my spiralling thoughts. 

“What?” 

“Show me the tattoo.”

Fucking hell. 

There is no way I’m doing this, as tempting as it may be.  
  
“I’m telling you, Snow, it’s for real. I wouldn’t kid about it. Fucking hurts like hell.” Why did I admit that?

I’m a constant disappointment to myself, that’s why.

It’s difficult to maintain eye contact with Snow but I force myself to do it, keep my chin held high. 

I’m surprised at the flash of concern on his face. 

And even more surprised when his hand reaches across the table towards me. He pulls it back before it makes contact with my wrist and I’m consumed with regret. 

“Why’d you do it, then?” Snow asks.

Which part? 

This meeting? The tattoo? That first photograph? 

All of it?

I give the only answer I can. “I play to win.” 

Even though it feels like I do nothing but lose . . .

Snow huffs a laugh. “You’ve won with the tattoo then. I’ve got nothing to top that.”

“I didn’t think it would be so easy to win.”

I don’t know why I insist on being so contrary. _“You’re made of trouble, Basil.”_ That’s what Fiona always says. 

Snow grins. “If it’s real, that is. I’ve not got confirmation of that.”

“I just told you it was.”

“Can’t take your word for it, can I? I don’t know you at all. Can’t just go around trusting strangers.” Snow leans back, arms still crossed. He’s smirking now. 

“Ask Ebb. She took the photo.”

“Hmm. Seeing is believing. I think I’d rather you convince me yourself.”

My mouth is dry. He’s a fucking glorious sight--all tumbled curls, broad shoulders, square jaw. He’s making my heart race, the beat of it thumping in my chest. 

“I’m not taking my shirt off in the middle of a cafe, Snow.”

“Is there someplace you’d prefer to do it, then?”

Fucking hell. Does he have any idea how _suggestive_ that sounds?

**Simon**

Bloody hell. I can’t believe I just said that. 

I didn’t mean it to sound so . . . so . . . well so _suggestive_. 

I can feel the heat wash over my face. I’m completely bollocksing this up. 

I’d just intended to confirm the tattoo. I’m fairly certain it’s real but for some reason I really needed to see it for myself. I’m not going to think too hard about why. 

Okay, I can admit it. I really just wanted to see him. 

Confirming if the tattoo is real was just an excuse to meet him. 

Although I can’t say I’m not looking forward to seeing it in the flesh, as it were. 

Shit, it’s all I’ve been thinking about since I saw the photo.

If it is real, then I’ll concede he’s won. 

And I’ll have to figure out a way to get him to meet me again. 

If it’s not real . . . well, then I’ve no objection to keeping our little competition going. 

Just maybe with a bit of a _twist_. 

I don’t know what I’m thinking. 

All I know is that I’ve been staring at his face for days now. I feel I know every inch of it. 

The real thing is so much better than the photograph, though. 

The way his hair shines. How it falls in waves that frame his face. I wonder what it feels like. 

It looks soft. 

Baz has flecks of silver in his eyes. They look grey in the photo but they’re green and blue and silver. Like the sky and the sea at dusk. 

He’s blushing now. Probably because of what I said. I can’t regret it though. Not if it made him look like this. 

I made him look like this. 

I like that. I like it a lot. 

I like all of this. 

I like looking at Baz, it seems. I can’t seem to get enough of it. 

I’ve tried not to think about it. 

But that didn’t stop me from staring at that photo. 

It’s not stopping me from staring at him now. 

I suppose I should say something.  
  
I don’t know what to say. 

I don’t want to scare him away. 

I want him to stay. 

I don’t know when I started thinking that way. 

But I don’t want to stop. 

I don’t want this to be the end. 

I think. . . I think I might want this to be a beginning.

**Baz**

Snow has the decency to look embarrassed. His face flushes and that hint of color goes all the way up to his ears, which I find completely irresistible. 

I find _him_ irresistible. 

He’s even more brilliant close up. 

I can count his moles and freckles when he’s so near. They trail a pattern across his face, a constellation unique to him.

I want to trace them with my finger. I want to brush my lips against each one. 

I am so fucking gone for this boy. 

It’s pathetic, really. 

I need to say something. The silence between us is growing awkward, both of us red-faced and restless. 

And because I’m weak, because I’m a constant disappointment to myself, I let myself say it.

“Alright, then. If you’re so bloody determined to see.” I stand up slowly and step away from my chair. 

I’ll just pull my shirt up a bit, let him get a quick peek, and then I’ll spontaneously combust and be put out of my misery forever. Seems a solid plan. 

Snow stands so quickly he does knock over his chair this time. It makes a loud clatter and I see people look in our direction. 

Blast it. I’m not pulling my shirt up for an audience. 

Well, perhaps for an audience of one. 

But not for the entire afternoon crowd at Watford.

Snow reaches a hand in my direction. “No, Baz, sorry. I’m. . . I’m sorry. I was being a bit of a prick.” He pulls his hand back to run it through his hair instead, messing with his curls, before dropping it to rub at the back of his neck. “Uh . . it’s alright. If you say it’s real, then I believe you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s real, Snow.” 

He nods. “Alright then.”

We stare at each other for another moment. This is it, then. I’ve met Snow. I’ve finally gotten a tantalizing glimpse of him close up. 

And that’s it. It’s over. 

He’ll probably nod at me if we’re ever in the cafe at the same time. Give me a curt _‘hello’_ if our paths cross on campus. No more than that. 

I’ll be the odd fellow who one-upped him at his favorite cafe once. 

I can at least be civil, in my last interaction with him. 

I put my hand out. “Well played, Snow. I think if nothing else you’ll be Watford’s most recognizable customer.” 

He takes my hand instantly, surprising me with the intensity of his grip. He shakes it, up and down, but he doesn’t let go. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Baz? Since you won?”

“You don’t have to do that.” 

_Yes, please buy me a cup of coffee, Snow. Anything to keep you close for a few moments more._

“Well, it’s not like Watford’s going to give you anything for being their number one customer.” He’s still gripping my hand. “So let me buy you a congratulatory cup, yeah?” Snow’s flushed, eyes wide, with such an earnest expression on his face. 

It’s almost as if he wants to do this. 

So I let him.

**Simon**

“You want a what?” I didn’t quite catch what Baz just ordered. 

“A pumpkin mocha breve. It’s my own creation.”

“It’s like a candy bar in coffee form.” Penny interjects. Her eyes are darting back and forth between me and Baz, her forehead creased in suspicion. “Your usual, Simon?”

I’m feeling a bit bold and reckless. “I’ll have what Baz is having.” 

Penny frowns. “Mr. Flat White wants a pumpkin mocha breve? Are you serious, Simon?”

“May as well see what the fuss is.” 

She leans forward, looking at me over the top of her glasses. “Are you two done, then? With this best customer nonsense?”

I catch Baz’s eye. He smiles. I’ve not seen him smile before. 

It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. 

“Let’s just say it’s a truce, Bunce. That sound alright, Snow?”

It sounds more than alright.   
  


**_Three weeks later_ **

**Baz**

I meet Snow at Watford after class. He’s where he always is, in the front booth, laptop open amidst a scattering of notes, his empty coffee cup at the edge of the table. 

I’ve got two freshly made pumpkin mocha breves, one for each of us. 

He looks frazzled. His hair is sticking up in tufts, so he’s been pulling at it in frustration, that much is clear. There’s a crease between his brows and his eyes look puffy. Didn’t get much sleep last night, then. 

But his mouth stretches into a grin at the sight of me and it’s the sun breaking through clouds. 

I drop a quick kiss on his curls before I slide into the seat across from him. 

“How was your day, Snow?”

I stretch my hand across the table and he takes it, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. 

“Better now that you’re here and bringing me fresh coffee.” He rakes his free hand through his hair, disheveling it further. “I was up half the night writing the damn thing, but I’m doing the final edits now. I’ll get it sent off before four.” His fingers slide between mine. “You alright, Baz?”

I nod back. “Fine. I've got a bit of reading to do tonight.” I squeeze his hand. “Should we get a curry when you’re done here?”

His eyes light up. There is nothing that delights him as much as food, I’ve discovered. 

I’ve learned some things about Snow over the past few weeks. 

How much he loves to eat is one of them. 

He’s a Liverpool fanatic, which would be unforgivable in anyone else but strangely endearing in him. 

He grew up in the care system. He’s been on his own since he was sixteen

Every day is a discovery with Snow. 

We ended up spending about an hour together, that first coffee we shared at Watford. 

One coffee date led to two. 

Two led to three, and then we were meeting there every morning to walk to campus together.I started meeting Snow here every day after class. 

At the end of the second week Snow took my hand as we walked. 

He kissed me for the first time last week. Caught me by the waist before I started up the stairs to my flat. Just a quick brush of lips. Then he’d grinned and said goodnight, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. 

Last night he’d kissed me soft and slow, at the bottom of my stairs again, his hand rubbing circles on my stomach, fingers slipping between the buttons of my shirt. 

I’d thought about asking him to come up. I’d thought about what that would be like. 

I’d thought about it for too long. 

Snow had pulled back, resting his hands on my hips. “I like you, Baz,” he had said. “I like you a lot.”

I’d put my hands on his shoulders and pressed our foreheads together. “I like you, Snow.” It had been a whisper, a breath between us. 

He had smiled. “You can call me Simon, you know.”

I’d raised an eyebrow at him and he’d laughed, the numpty. I almost asked him to come up then.

Snow had pulled me close and kissed me again, lips sliding over mine, tongues gliding together, his fingers digging into my hip bones. It took my breath away. 

He’d pulled back with a sigh that time. “Bloody hell. I wish I didn’t have this paper to finish tonight, Baz.” He’d looked contrite, regretful. 

I’d reached up and swept the curls off his forehead, tangling my fingers in his hair. “Not to worry, Snow. I’ve got to revise for an exam tomorrow.” I’d pressed a kiss to his temple. 

“See you in the morning, yeah?”

And then he’d left. 

Leaving me far less eager to revise for my examination and far more determined that I wouldn’t let our night end at the stairs again next time. 

**Simon**

My blasted paper is finished and sent off. I’m glad Baz suggested we get a curry. I’m famished. 

There’s a place just a few blocks away. We’ve eaten there before. My mouth is watering at the thought of samosas and lamb biryani. 

I pack up my laptop and Baz clears the rubbish from the table. 

I take his hand as soon as we get outside. His fingers are cold so I lace them with mine and tuck both our hands in my jacket pocket. Baz moves closer as a result and I like that even more. 

We get in the queue at the restaurant and Baz surprises me by telling the cashier to put our order in as a _‘to go’_. 

I can feel my pulse speed up. That can only mean one thing. We’re taking the food back to his place. 

I’ve not been to his flat yet. 

I mean, we’ve only been seeing each other for a little over three weeks and I couldn't even muster up the courage to kiss him until a few days ago. 

I liked it. I like kissing Baz. 

Once we’re outside Baz darts a glance at me and his cheeks turn color. “I thought it might be quieter at my place.” He clears his throat. “To eat, I mean.”

“Oh, right, great.”

We’re each carrying a bag so I take Baz’s free hand in mine again. 

He lets go when we get to the stairs and hurries up, unlocking the door to his flat before I reach the top. There’s just one small hallway, only two flats up here it seems. Baz’s is on the left. 

It’s larger than I expected for a uni student. I know Baz’s family owns the building. He told me that a few days after we met, when he told me where he lived. 

I still can’t believe he lives right over the cafe and I’d never seen him before our whole feud. I’d not have forgotten that face. 

Fuck. If I’m at his flat that means I probably should have him ‘round to my place sometime. 

Mine’s smaller, older, messier. 

Baz’s flat is all sleek furniture and clean tabletops. 

Mine’s got a lumpy sofa, an even lumpier bed, two rickety bookshelves, and stacks of books and papers on every flat surface. 

It also has a framed photograph of Baz on top of my shelves. Bloody hell, I need to remember to hide that away before I have him over. 

I’ll never live that down. 

I’m not going to throw it away, though, that’s for damn sure. 

  
  


**Baz**

Having Snow here is awkward so I’m grateful we stopped for food. It gives us something to do and something to talk about. I’m not in the habit of having people over to my flat. 

Other than Dev and Niall but they don’t really count as _people_. Dev’s related to me and Niall’s been my friend since primary school. 

Having Snow here is different. He’s not _people_ either. He’s my boyfriend, I suppose, although we’ve not come out and said it in so many words. 

Is he my boyfriend? 

I’ve seen him every day for the past three weeks (he texts me before he goes to sleep each night).

He’s the first thing on my mind when I wake up (he’s my last thought before I fall asleep).

He’s someone I’m snogging (I want to do more than snog). 

He’s shoveling in the lamb biryani and I can’t tear my eyes away from him. 

I should probably ask. If this counts as being boyfriends. I think it does. 

I’d like to be Snow’s boyfriend. 

I don’t know how to do this. 

I’ve never actually had a boyfriend. 

I’ve snogged people, of course, but nothing that really qualifies as a _relationship._

Three weeks qualifies as a relationship, doesn’t it?

Christ, I’m going to have to ask him. 

**Simon**

There isn’t much to clean up. I finished the samosas and biryani too. I put the rubbish in the bin while Baz does the washing up. 

It’s right domestic, it is. 

It’s been three weeks but it feels like no time at all and longer than that too. It’s hard to explain. 

Everything is new but it’s comfortable. Familiar, which doesn’t make sense. 

Maybe that’s not the right word. 

Easy. Natural. That’s what I mean. 

Like I didn’t have to think too hard about taking Baz’s hand that first time. I just did it when it felt right. 

When I kissed him, he kissed me back. 

Like we fit. Like we _matched._

I think Baz is nervous. He’s wiping the table down for the third time, even though there’s not a speck of rice on it. 

I don’t want him to be nervous about me being in his space. I don’t want him to think I expect anything. 

I don’t. 

I just want to be with him.

Well, I mean, I’d like to snog him

I’d like to do more than snog him, but that can wait. 

We’ve got time. 

Three weeks of dating isn’t all that long. I’m good with taking things slow. 

It gives me time to figure out how to be a good boyfriend. 

Am I Baz’s boyfriend? I haven’t asked him, have I? 

I asked Agatha, asked her if she’d be my girlfriend, when we were dating. 

We’re better as friends than we ever were when we were dating. I never knew if I was doing the right thing, if I was saying the right thing, with her. I didn’t know how to be a good boyfriend so I ended up being a terrible one. 

I want to be Baz’s boyfriend. 

But what I really want right now is for Baz to stop cleaning the kitchen and let me kiss him. 

**Baz**

I’m pathetic. 

I’m wiping down the kitchen counter again. I’m stalling. I’m being an absolute tit. I want to ask Snow to sit on the sofa with me but I don’t want to sound like I want to get him on the sofa just so I can snog him senseless.

Which is absolutely what I want to do. Snog him senseless. 

Christ, I am terrible at this. 

I rinse the washrag and set in on the rack to dry. 

I can ask him if he wants to watch television. Then I won’t seem so eager (I’m eager).

“You want to watch something, Simon?” I’m endeavouring to call him Simon. He told me he likes it when I do. 

I’ve been thinking of him as Snow for all this time so it seems odd to call him _Simon._

I like it. It feels more intimate. 

Fuck. Now I’ve made myself blush. 

**Simon**

“Yeah, that sounds good.” 

Baz has finally stopped mucking about in the kitchen but he still looks like he’s thinking too hard. His brow is furrowed and his face just flushed after he asked if I wanted to watch television. 

I want to smooth that crease away. I want to tell him it’s alright. That whatever he wants is alright with me. 

I take his hand instead. 

  
**Baz**

Snow--no, Simon--takes my hand and it grounds me. It’s familiar and warm and I squeeze his hand as I walk him into the den. I take up the remote and we sit on the sofa, still hand in hand, legs barely brushing against each other. 

I flip through the channels, finally landing on a documentary about penguins. I recognize David Attenborough’s voice. It’s soothing. 

Simon’s rubbing his thumb on the back of my hand and that’s soothing too. 

He shifts and then we’re pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. I lift our hands up and rest them on my thigh. I can feel the heat of him through my jeans. 

I feel the weight of Simon’s head come to rest on my shoulder and it feels like everything is falling into place. Like we fit. 

I turn my head and brush a kiss into his hair. 

He nuzzles his face into my neck. 

I could get used to this. 

“Baz.”

“Yes, Simon?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You may.”

He huffs and I can feel his breath on my collarbone. It’s warm but it still makes a shiver run through me. 

“I like this.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Shut up. I’m getting to it, you prat.” His tone is gentle, amused. “I like _this_ ,” he says again.

“I like this too.”

“So . . . ah . . . this then.” His fingers squeeze mine. “Would you be ok with me calling you my boyfriend?” 

My breath catches. _More than ok_ , I think. But I don’t say it. I tighten my grip on his hand. “If you’re ok with me calling you mine,” I say instead.

“I’d like that.”

“Alright, then."

“I’m not very good at it, Baz.” 

“Not very good at what?”

“At being a boyfriend. I’m sure to muck it up somehow, without meaning to. Just so you know.”

“I’m sure to be worse.” Confession time. “I’ve not had any experience at being someone’s boyfriend so I’m far more likely to be the one mucking it up.”

“We can figure it out together.”

The penguins are forming a huddle on the screen. I can hear Attenborough’s voice but I’m not really listening to the words. I can feel Simon’s breath against my neck.

“Baz.”

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

The word is out of my mouth before I can think it through. “Please.”

That’s all it takes. Simon tilts his head and his lips come to rest against my skin, traveling from my collarbone up to my jawline. I drop my head back and then turn towards him. He lifts his head and our eyes meet. 

And then his lips crash into mine and it’s nothing like the soft, slow kisses we had on the stairs last night. 

This is urgent, heated, ravenous. 

It’s perfect. 

Simon’s mouth is hot. He shifts his hips, turns towards me and now we’re facing each other, his hands coming up to cup my cheeks, mine grasping his shoulders. 

I want him closer. I pull his shoulders to me, just as he pushes his face into mine, doing that thing he does with his chin. It feels _so good_. I lean back, slowly sliding down the sofa, until I’m lying on my back, Simon on top of me. 

I shift my legs and Simon is lying between them, his chest resting on mine, the warm weight of him pressing down on me, his hands sliding up and down my sides. I’ve got my hands in his hair, my fingers sinking into his coarse curls.

We pause for breath, mouthing each other’s lips an instant later, hands roaming over chests, arms, hips. Simon slips his fingers between the buttons of my shirt, the heat of his fingers making me tremble at his touch. 

I’ve got my hands splayed against the muscles of his back, catching on the fabric of his shirt. I pull his shirt out of his jeans and bring my hands to rest against his skin—warm, firm, smooth. 

Simon growls and buries his face in my neck, his breath heavy as he presses open mouthed kisses in a heated trail from my jaw to my pulse point. 

I run my fingers along his spine, feather light, ghosting the tips along his skin. I feel a shiver run through him at my touch. 

His hands find my waist and he pulls my shirt out of my trousers, sliding the fabric up until my abdomen is exposed. He pulls back, resting on his forearms, to look down at me.

Simon’s pupils are wide, his face flushed. “Is this alright?”

I run my hand up his chest, bringing it to rest behind his neck. “It’s perfect,” I say, before I draw him to me again, reaching up to bring my mouth to his. 

His hands slide under my shirt, along my sides, pressing into my skin. 

His kisses are slower now, his tongue languorously sliding against my own, the taste of him becoming so familiar. His hand slides up between us, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt, pressing kisses to my lips as my shirt falls open, inch by inch. 

He scoots down, his heated breath lingering over my collarbone, then down the middle of my chest, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my ribs. 

And then he stops, pulls back, brings his fingers along my side, to trace a pattern over my skin--gently, reverently. 

I know what he’s tracing. 

It’s the Watford tattoo. 

The one he hasn’t seen until now. 

**Simon**

It’s there, just like it was in the photo Ebb took. It’s not red anymore, the skin smooth, the purple vibrant, the edges of the crest sharp and distinct. 

I trace my index finger over the design, barely skimming Baz’s skin. I hear his intake of breath and pull my hand away as my eyes dart up to his face. “Does it still hurt?”

Baz’s pupils are wide and black, his hair in tumbled waves framing his face, lips plush and full. He shakes his head and breathes out his answer. “No, not anymore.”

He’s so fucking beautiful. I don’t know how I ever could have thought differently. 

I hover my finger over the tattoo once more. “May I?”

He takes in another breath and lets it out slowly, eyes closing. His lips curve up into a smile, somehow fond and amused at once. “You may.”

I trace the outline again, my finger brushing gently against his skin. 

I think about my flyer. I think of Baz seeing it. Of his response. 

I think of every chance, every decision, the interplay that brought us here, to this place, to this moment. 

I bring my head down until my lips hover over that spot. The last piece of the puzzle that created me and Baz. I let my breath ghost over his skin. 

A ripple runs through his flesh as I touch my lips to the crest, trace the design of it with the tip of my tongue, taste the salt on Baz’s skin. His fingers sink into my hair, scrape against my scalp, clench in my curls. 

His breath catches and then he sighs.

**Baz**

My head falls back as Simon’s mouth presses against my skin, the sensation sending sparks trailing across my ribs. 

I’m trembling. 

Simon lifts his head and I open my eyes to meet his. I let my fingers slip out of his hair.

He reaches for my hand, tightly laces our fingers together and brings my knuckles to his lips. Then he rests his head in the center of my chest, right over my heart, and tucks our linked hands under his chin. 

It’s achingly tender. 

I bring my other hand to rest on his back.

**Simon**

I can hear his heartbeat. It slows, moment by moment, until it’s a steady, comforting thump. 

Slow and steady.

Just how I want us to be.

I could stay in this moment forever. 

So I do.

  
**Epilogue:**

**Penelope**

Agatha sighs and shakes her head. “They’re at it again.”

My head snaps up from the latte I’m making. “What?"

“I’m sure Simon put it up.”

I finish the latte and call out for the customer then march myself over to the bulletin board. 

And there is it. Right in the middle. Another full color selfie of Simon and Baz, printed on glossy paper. They’re all bright eyes and flushed cheeks, heads adorably tilted towards each other, Watford’s new holiday coffee cups in their hands. 

They look utterly besotted with each other. Ridiculously happy, the both of them. 

Below the photo is a caption: _“Watford’s best customers!”_ in a painfully cheerful red font. 

I roll my eyes and dig in my pocket for the Sharpie that I use to write people’s names on their coffee cups. 

I put a line through _“best”_ and print _“most annoying”_ in block letters in its place. 

There. That’s more accurate. 

Simon and Baz are at the counter when I return, all smiles and adoring looks. Agatha has made herself scarce. I can’t blame her. These two were a menace when they were feuding. 

They’re worse now with the constant _flirting._

I’ve not seen Baz look this happy in a long time. 

I’ve never seen Simon this _settled_. 

I doubt either of them will give me any credit for this. As if I hadn’t been trying to introduce them to each other for months. 

“Stop flirting, you two and give me your order.”

“We’re not flirting, Penny. We weren’t even saying anything.” Simon is holding Baz’s hand and they’re practically joined at the hip, they’re standing so close together. 

“You don’t have to say anything. You may as well have anime hearts in your eyes, you sap.”

Baz grins and leans towards me to order. “Two gingerbread lattes, Bunce.”

I hustle off to make their coffees so I don’t have to watch them be adorable together. It’s as sickly sweet as their order. 

It doesn’t stop me from putting matching foam hearts on their drinks though. 

“Here you go, you menaces. Now go flirt somewhere else.” 

I see Baz smile as he looks at his drink. He gives me a nod and I can’t help but smile back. 

“You forgot to charge us, Penny.” Simon’s got his wallet out. 

I shake my head. “It’s customer appreciation day.”  
  
He scrunches up his face. “I thought Watford didn’t have those.”

“I made it up. You finally have your free coffee, Simon.” I lean across the counter and look at him over the top of my glasses. “Now for the love of God, stop putting selfies of you and Baz on the bulletin board.” I make a shooing motion with my hand. “Shove off, you two. I’m getting a toothache just from looking at you.”

I’m lying. I’ve got a warm feeling in my chest at the sight of them.

But I’m not about to tell them that.

**Author's Note:**

> This kind of competition happened at a coffee shop in Australia and I saw in the news and immediately thought of Simon and Baz. I don't think the real life counterparts had such a steamy ending.
> 
> my thanks to BasicBathsheba for the beta read and enthusiastic support of this fic and to mudblood429, penpanoply and drvivc for their unwavering support and encouragement ( and laugh emojis on the draft!  
> (my thanks to @vkelleyart for the tattoo photoshop assist)


End file.
